


The Hunter and the Hunted

by little_abyss



Series: Sleeping Dogs [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst, Double Anal Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, Night Terrors, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Puppy Play, Subspace, Threesome - M/M/M, collaring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final in the 'Sleeping Dogs' series; Cullen is caught between his needs and his desires, and discovers he's not as alone as he thinks he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunter and the Hunted

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS THE LAST ONE,[ Teyla_Emmagan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyla_Emmagan/pseuds/Teyla_Emmagan)! I accidentally made it fluffy, a bit. Heh, oh well.

"But some things cannot be repent,

Some coinage cannot be unspent,

When hearts are wagered, a fissure rent."

 -- from _The Saga of Dane and the Werewolf_ as recorded by the minstrel Uccam, 4:85 Black

  

* * *

 

They wake together, a bright beam of light scoring through the dim room.  Cullen begins to unwrap his leg from over Adaar's naked hip, when he feels a warm hand slide up his thigh.  Smiling, he rubs his face sleepily into Adaar's chest and asks, "Sleep well?"

 

The Inquisitor slits his eyes open and raises his hand to run it through Cullen's hair.  He smiles softly, looking at Cullen, and murmurs a little in a croaky voice.  Cullen blinks in the golden light, then sighs.  Adaar shifts slightly, frowns as he looks down at Cullen.  Then he clears his throat and asks, "Are you alright, Pup?  You dreamed again last night, didn't you?"

 

There is no use denying it.  Usually, Adaar makes sure Cullen is completely exhausted before allowing him to sleep, and that had certainly been the case, last night he had been so bone-tired that he could barely keep his eyes open.  In the past, this has been enough to keep the dreams at bay, as Cullen has found that the more exhausted he is when he gets to sleep, the less likely it is that the dreams return.  But there has been a growing dissatisfaction in Cullen, some feeling that he does not know the name of.  Honestly, it’s  something he would prefer not to even think about, but it seems directly connected to… has only been with him since... He pushes the thought away, trying to dispel it from his mind, but is helpless against the almost physical sensations that the thoughts bring with them; the slide of the red lyrium, the bitter sound of Samson’s voice as he recited the canticle, the taste of blood in his mouth.  

 

So he had dreamed last night, despite Adaar's ministrations, for the first time in months.  He knows now that he will never be entirely free of Kinloch - the dark corridors, echoing voices, the wet slap of blood from flesh and the snap of bone, screams cut short as abomination after abomination burst forth from his brothers and sisters.  Her voice in his mind, sweet lies on her tongue and the gifts of rotten flesh that her hands had bought, always would bring him.  She is never far.  But still, he says nothing, and Adaar takes his silence for what it is; an unspoken yes, where to say the word would be to admit weakness, admit failure, at least in his own mind.  Without saying anything, Adaar draws Cullen closer to him briefly under the blankets, holding him tightly.  Cullen feels him swallow and he almost whispers, "Solitude is illusion.  You're not alone in this; if you need me, _whatever_ you need, I'm here, Pup.  I always will be, as long as you want me."

 

-|||-

 

The time drags.  Adaar is called away; the Fallow Mire, briefly back to Skyhold then Emprise du Lion, then on to the Western Approach.  Cullen divides his time between his office and the yard, drilling and planning and writing and drilling again, careful to keep himself going all the time, dropping asleep quickly each night.  Some nights he makes it as far as his bed, but more often he wakes in the early morning at his desk, candle burned down to the quick, fire to ashes in the grate.  He sees Cassandra watch him sometimes, her face inscrutable, but she denies she is concerned when he asks her.  To try and distance himself from this strange, mounting feeling - almost dread, almost acceptance - he delegates Samson’s questioning and care to one of his lieutenants, changing the officer responsible every few days so as to mitigate the risk of any camaraderie developing.  After all, he knows that Samson can be charming when he needs to be, and his reduced circumstances might cause an individual who becomes used to him to be less cautious than they should be.  Perhaps it is paranoid, but better to be prepared for risk where there is none, than to be surprised by circumstances.  Once bitten, twice shy, after all.

 

But there comes a night, over a month into Adaar’s absence from Skyhold, where Cullen finds himself drawn inexorably down, down, into the bowels of the holdfast.  The stone is damp, always damp down here, and it smells cold and abandoned still, even after all this time.  It is the only place even remotely secure enough to house prisoners, so this is where they must stay.  He is tired, so tired that he isn’t thinking straight, and before he knows where he’s going, he is striding the aisle between the cells, his feet taking him to the last on the row.  He stops suddenly, wondering at himself, and then looks up to see Samson silently watching from his cell.  

 

He is much better.  The whites of his eyes are less pink again, the irises are beginning to return to their faded grey-green; the shade is somewhere in the realm of a dark violet.   _Suits him_ _,_ Cullen thinks, then swallows, blinking.  He can feel his heart rate begin to pound in his ears, his mind curl in on itself, a continued litany of _just go just go, get out, go now_ , the internal voice rising in volume as his breath falters in his lungs.  He opens his mouth without anything to say, tries to will his feet to turn, but does not want to flee.  Samson licks his lips, a nervous gesture.  Cullen sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and then Samson draws breath and says quietly, “Wondered if I’d see you again.”  His jaw clenches and he says, somewhat bitterly, “The masters’ finally sent the dog.  Well, I’ll tell you what I told him - I don’t need you, either of you, so you can just fuck off.”

 

But that bitterness is a thin veneer, a self-defence if ever Cullen heard it.  Cullen listens to the words again, really listens as he repeats them in his mind: _I don’t need you, either of you_ becomes _want you, want both of you, I want you_ _._  He frowns, puzzled, forgetting his own confusion and tiredness and fear of only moments before as he tries to figure out what Samson might be talking about.  He looks up in time to see Samson return his frown of confusion, and then his expression breaks as he says in amazement, “You didn’t know he’d been here, did you?  Your beloved Inquisitor’s been sneakin’ around on you, and _you didn’t know_ _._ ”

 

Cullen feels as if he can hardly breathe.   _Sneaking around_ _?_ he tries to ask, but shock prevents him from forming the words.  Samson’s lip curls in a sneer and he shakes his head, “I told you, Len.  I told you, you big idiot, if you let them make you their dog, they’ll do whatever-the-fuck they like, and…”  He glowers at Cullen, clenches his jaw again and looks away as he mutters, “I just didn’t know you’d take me so fuckin’ literally.   _Collared_ ,” he says in disgust, then looks at Cullen again.  His eyes blaze, but it is not with anger, more like… sadness, betrayal.  Cullen looks at him, momentarily devoid of any thought, and then his anger is upon him and he strides forward, right up to the bars of Samson’s cell.  He grips the iron in his fist and tells Samson through gritted teeth, “At least I know who I am.  Maker’s Breath, I know myself well enough to know I need a strong hand.  I need the collar, but at least I don’t choose a master out of sheer desperation.  I _am_ a dog, just as you are.  Adaar knows me, he knows who I am, and I know he cares for me.”  Cullen shakes his head and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then asks, “Could you have said the same?”

 

Samson ignores the question.  “He was askin’ about you and me.  Wondering why you’ve been sending all these others to question me.  I told him he should ask you himself and he laughed, said I must have a theory.  Even that weird dwarf girl asked about it.   _The Commander doesn’t seem to like you very much_ , she said.  I told her that you’re just a bit of a sensitive bastard, and she looked at me like she didn’t believe it.  And then that… _Adaar_ shows up,” Samson looks away again, his shoulders hunched, hand on the bars just under Cullens own, and sighs.  His expression changes, and he looks quickly back to Cullen, almost ashamed, then continues, “He shows up and asks if I didn’t think that maybe…”  Then Samson frowns and is silent once more.

 

Cullen is still furious, but he waits.  The silence seems interminable; this must be the only place in Skyhold where there is no noise, no sign of any kind of life.  While he waits for Samson to resume, he notices how much changed his cell is - a proper barracks bed, a small bookshelf, a writing desk.  It is taking on the air of a permanent residence, rather than a make-do accommodation.  Finally, Samson sighs, a shaky breath.  Tentatively, he moves his hand up the bars so that the line of skin on the side of his index finger, around his hand to his thumb, is resting against the underside of Cullen’s hand.  Cullen’s nostrils flare as he blows out an irritated breath, but he does not move his hand away.  

 

As if somehow sensing that the storm is past, Samson says quietly, calmly, “Adaar asked if I didn’t think that maybe I could make you happy.  He’s… worried about you, I guess.  Maybe he’s worried about the dreams, too, I don’t know; maybe he thinks you won’t wake up and do something stupid, have an accident.  I know you don’t always wake up in the middle of them.”  Cullen exhales, then asks, “And what did you tell him?”  He concentrates on the line of warmth around finger and thumb where Lee’s skin is touching his gloved hand, some part of him grateful for the small gesture.  Samson sniffs, and rolls his eyes, then grudgingly says, “Told him I would.  Told him it’s not like I have much choice.  But it’s not like I… I mean, I don’t want to.  Not for myself.” He shifts as if suddenly uncomfortable, and then shakes his head, breathing heavily.  “Aw, fuck it,” he mutters, looking down, and then sniffs again, looking up suddenly at Cullen to say harshly, “I’d do anything for you.”

 

“You would, would you?”  Cullen manages to hide his surprise at the admission, but only barely.  In that instant, he knows he feels the same, he knows what he feels for Samson is not what he feels for Adaar, but he knows it’s strong, and real.  He swallows, and then asks, “Anything?”

 

Silence again.  The wind moans forlornly through the slitted windows, the only sound for a long time.  Then Samson raises his chin, staring directly at Cullen with his new violet eyes and asks through a faint smile, “What exactly did you have in mind?”

 

-|||-

 

Cullen wakes with a start, having heard a heavy tread climbing the stairs.  While they slept, curled on the Inquisitor’s large bed, dawn has come and gone, the pin points of the stars healing slowly into the white light of the day.  Quickly, extricates himself from under Samson’s arm, pushes himself off the side of the bed.  He smooths a hand over his hair, knowing that it will be a mess of corkscrewed curls, and pulls up the light cotton breeches further on his hips.  Then he tenses when he sees the tips of Adaars’ horns crest of the top of the bannister.

 

“Inquisitor,” Cullen begins, walking forward, his face tentative, worried. But Adaar looks at him then, grinning, all lopsided and suggestive.  He climbs the last stair and turns, arms outstretched, crossing the floor to where Cullen stands.  One large, warm hand encircles Cullen’s waist; the other slides along his jaw, cupping it, scratching gently behind his ear as the Inquisitor murmurs “Pup.” His tone is low, thick and Cullen feels his breath catch in his throat as Adaar leans toward him, eyes half-lidded.  Then Adaar’s mouth is on his, and Cullen moans into the kiss, pressing his body full against the Vashoth’s, welcoming the ownership implied in the contact.  The kiss is languid, almost lazy, Adaar pushing gently yet firmly against Cullen’s lips, questing with his tongue.  There is something luxurious about the slowness, the certainty of the gesture that Cullen revels in.  Finally, Adaar pulls his head back and stands looking at Cullen for a moment before he says gently, “Welcome home, indeed.” A pause, and then Adaar asks, “Is there something you want to say?”

 

Before Cullen can stop himself, he glances at the bed.  Adaar follows his gaze, and desperately, Cullen wants to turn his head around again, make him unsee Samson there, Samson in the bed they shared.  He is unable to help the involuntary shiver of fear as he imagines his own rage should he be in Adaar’s position, furious at himself for being unable to wait, to talk to Adaar properly once he had returned.  Blind to everything except the distorting terror that rises within him, he almost babbles, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t know, we never know when you’ll return and I just, I lost it, I’m sorry, oh Maker… I was _desperate_ _,_ and he said you knew about it, and I…”

“Quiet, Pup.”  Adaar’s expression does not change, that faint smile still playing about his lips, eyes still gentle.  Cullen watches the thump of his pulse in his neck, feels the warmth of Adaar’s hand on his waist and dread steals around his heart.  What if Adaar should tell him to go?   _Stupid, stupid_ _,_ he curses himself, but still he waits on Adaar, who is now looking at him, quiet, still with that tiny smile on his lips.  And then the hand encircling Cullen’s throat and the back of his head resumes its stroking, and Adaar whispers, “No apologies, Pup.  I wondered when this would happen.  But you and I need to talk.  And probably him as well.  I need to know I can trust him.”  

 

“You can trust me,” Samson says from the bed, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes.  He is sitting up, blankets pooled around his waist, chest exposed to the cool morning air.  He yawns, hugely and then blinks at the Inquisitor.  “Just as long as you’re not planning to fuck me on the War Table or anything.  I might be depraved, but I’m not _that_ depraved.”  Cullen burns at that, exhaling sharply, but Adaar only laughs.  “Tales of your depravities know no bounds, serah.  However, it’s not _tales_ that I’m interested in.  I know there’s something in you that my Commander sees.  I know I’ve heard him say your name in his sleep.”  Cullen sighs, tension crawling across his shoulders, and looks up at Adaar, ashamed of how easily he had given himself away.  “But I want to know if there is room here for us both.  I want to know if we can… reach an understanding.  I think I know what has happened before.  And I suppose my question is this,” Adaar cocks his head, hands still moving restlessly on Cullen as he stares at Samson and asks, “Are you prepared to let me be your master?”

 

Tension wells in the room.  Samson narrows his eyes, staring back at Adaar with such ferocity Cullen believes he will say no.  But before Samson can speak, Adaar smiles and shrugs.  Then he tells Samson, “If you are not, we may still reach an understanding.  But I feel like my Pup… that is to say, Cullen, would be better served if we worked together.  And…”

“Yes, alright then, you big horned brute.  But I got a few conditions.”  Samson frowns and continues to glower at Adaar, who shrugs and says, “And they are..?”

 

“I’m here for _him_ _._  Get it?  So you can put your collar on me, do whatever, but as soon as Len’s out, I’m out.  We don’t play without him.  I’ll abide by all your stupid little rules when I’m… when I’m a dog, but I’m not _yours_ _._  I’m _his._ ”  Adaar’s eyebrows rise for a moment, and his smile broadens.  He inhales, Cullen feels the air with in his lungs widen Adaar’s ribs under his arms for a moment, and then he nods at Samson, and says, “Understood.  Pup?”  And then he looks at Cullen, eyes questioning, and Cullen thinks.  He is not sure he wants this now, not sure if it will not be too much for him, Samson and Adaar both.  But then, what it is to be so wanted - he’d never thought that, he never… his eyes rove around the room, brushing the light bouncing from the polished balustrade, the drapery, the slick shine of the wet stone outside the window as his mind whispers _it’s love isn’t it, you never thought you’d be so loved?  And what makes you think you are?  Adaar wants to keep you happy until he’s won this war; Samson’s deserted you once before, what makes you think he wouldn’t do it again?_ But then he looks again at Samson, sees the defiance thinly overlaying his very real concern, hears the words again, _I’m not yours, I’m his_ _,_ knows what it costs him to submit.  He looks then to Adaar who blinks under the sudden scrutiny, but does not waver his gaze.  In it, there is love, and kindness, and a depth of feeling that seems to almost permeate Cullen’s being to his very core.  Strangely abashed, he looks away, then inhales a shaky breath and says, “Yes.”  He nods, unsmiling, looking from Adaar to Samson then back.  “Yes,” he repeats again, into the warming air.

 

-|||-

 

Weeks, months it seems, and Cullen grows more restless still.  Adaar is away once more, and as Dagna’s experimentation increases, Samson is frequently left weak and tired.  The dreams encroach into his waking moments now; one of Leliana's agents, the Tal-Vashoth, had surprised him around the corner of a flight of stairs, and before he really saw the agent, he had seen the purple skin and fangs, seen his horns as _hers_ _._ His sword was drawn in an instant, left hand grasping for a shield he no longer carries, knowing in the back of his mind it would do him no good against her anyway.  But then the agent had stepped back, tilted his head quizzically and frowned in confusion, hands nowhere near his weapons and Cullen had realised his mistake.   He managed to stammer out an apology, but he did not wait for the agent to respond; merely turned on his heel and fled.

 

So night finds him, once more pacing the stone floors of the Inquisitor’s quarters. Because he spends so much time on his hands and knees, the stone is now covered with thick rugs and furs, mostly of Nevarran and Orlesian manufacture.  It means that every tread is muffled and the sound of Cullen’s barking no longer reverberates as it used to.   Eventually, he gives up his pacing and watches as the moon reaches its low zenith; mid-autumn now and already the lunar trajectory across the sky barely skirts the tops of the mountains surrounding Skyhold.  He is so immersed in watching it, feeling the flutter of his pulse which is the results of such patchy rest for days now, that he does not hear Adaar return until he feels the warm presence behind him and Adaar’s arms encircling him.

 

He is too tired to do more than flinch at the unexpected contact, though his heart hammers and he feels panic nudge at his mind, almost audible, like a windchime.  Slowly, Adaar pulls at Cullen’s waist, turning him around so that they stand facing one another.  “Pup,” Adaar murmurs, as he moves one huge hand to cup Cullen’s jaw, tilting his face up into his own.  He nuzzles his chin into Cullen’s cheek, over his cheekbone, stubble rough against the sensitive skin around his eye, hands warm and comforting.  And Cullen’s mind slides sideways and down, almost automatically now, into his dog-self so seamlessly he barely notices the change.  He nuzzles back, whining plaintively as he does, then scents at the skin of Adaar’s wrist.  He bares his teeth and takes the hem of Adaar’s sleeve between his teeth, his paws (he has ceased to think of them as hands) on Adaar’s chest.  Pulling a little on the fabric, he looks at Adaar and growls, tiredness and despair of a moment before forgotten.  Adaar laughs, a bellow in the quiet room.  “All in good time, Pup,” he admonishes gently, “For now, let’s sleep.”

 

But he wakes, hours later.  The barracks is dark, the sheets on the narrow bed wet with sweat, his cock hard and throbbing.   _Oh sweet, sweetling,_ his mind whispers and he rubs a shaking hand over his damp face.   _Improper conduct, they’d expel you_ a different voice whispers and then laughs and tells him _but she doesn’t want you anyway._

 

Suddenly, from somewhere down the corridor outside, there is the tell-tale cut-off scream then the _whumpf-ROAR!_ of a rage demon coming into being.  In a flash, his training takes over, vaulting out of bed, hands to sword, the Chant singing within.  But the noise comes again and again; _whumpf-ROAR!, whumpf-ROAR!,_ twice in succession and his hand hesitates on the door knob.  One is bad - three, unprecedented for him, in all the time he has been at Kinloch.  And again, Maker’s Breath, how did..? The others… he thinks, dimly aware of the empty beds  [...Pup..?] around him, then the rage demon is there, right in front of him suddenly, and he brings his sword up to defend himself.  The light it casts on the familiar stone walls is red, red like the stones of Kirkwall, alight and flickering; it’s bulk is astonishing, bright molten light pouring from within it as it roars its terrible rage, claws slashing the air in front of him.  He brings his sword up in a flat arc, the full weight of his body behind it.  The rage demon screams, he can see the other two look around at the noise their fellow is making, when suddenly time sl ip s   a wa ay and he is running, running, taking the stairs two at a time, the grip on his sword hand slippery with blood and muck from the Fade [Pup, wake up, please], his muscles screaming, mind blank as he climbs and then he hears her voice all around him as she asks, “Cullen, don’t you want me?”

 

He turns at the sound of her voice, time s l o w i  n  g   d  o   w   n  again, seeming to take aeons to turn, but then she is there in his arms, the smell of her hair as he’s always imagined it would smell, the bright fire of her eyes, and

        o Maker how he wants her, wants her almost with pain, and she seems to know it too, as she takes [Puppy!  Come on..!] his hand, cups it around her breast, she is naked, he moans as he rubs the dusky pink nipple under his thumb, sword and gore forgotten, wiped clean by this woman, she arches her head backwards and gasps as he kisses her neck, oh the sweet slide of and it’s sound of laughter, her laughter, hot breath, sharp teeth in his skin [Cullen, please wake up, wake up] her bruise-purple skin as she laughs at him, golden eyes boring into his as she tells him _you were always mine_ _,_ horns arcing away into the black as she encases him, he struggles but it’s the struggle of a moth caught in glass, but he tries anyway, throws himself against the barrier again and again, as she [Cullen, Cullen, please] laughs the light of the fires glinting bright in her eyes and off her teeth and skin and horns and he is trapped TRAPPED FOREVER, there is no

            no stronger prison

            no worse place than the one inside his own

_[puppy, please]_

 

the horns and the reflection of eyes are all he sees

 

Blindly, he hits out, panic-stricken, fists and knees, struggling for purchase amongst the sodden bedclothes.  The demon tells him, “Puppy, Puppy, Cullen, it’s me, it’s me, Adaar.  This is Skyhold, _Skyhold_ , Cullen, you’re safe.”  Strong hands on his upper arms and he is crying, still trying to get away from it, Maker, no, no… but… the shape of the horns is different; the light is the grey of pre-dawn, not the red of raging fires, and the voice is soft, sad as it tells him, “Puppy, it’s Adaar.  Sweet Pup,” and a huge hand strokes gently over his head, pushing the sweaty hair back off his forehead as he shudders, unable to help himself.  Cullen sobs, his mind scrabbling to exert some semblance of control over his overtaxed emotions, but as yet unable to dam the flood of his relief at waking once again in Skyhold, or the rage at his traitorous mind.  Adaar merely holds him close until his tears are spent, and as Cullen drifts back into an exhausted sleep, he thinks he hears Adaar say softly, “...end to this, whatever it…” And then the dreamless dark takes him.

 

-|||-

 

The leather pulls tight and Cullen smiles up at Adaar.  Adaar grins back and asks softly, “You’re sure?” No, Cullen wants to say, but cannot bring himself to.  The lack of surety is something that he’s clinging to - some moments, this all seems like a terrible idea, something even Varric Tethras would think too lurid.  In other moments however, it seems perfect, more than perfect; control and unbridled desire intersecting in the two people he cares most about in the world.  He thinks he knows the nature of his feelings toward both Adaar and Samson.  However, it is the juncture of these previously separate elements which he is most unsettled by.  “I feel as if I’ve told you this before,” Adaar grins lasciviously at him, eyebrows raised, “but tug down twice if you want out.”

 

Smirking, allowing his mind to circle within itself as it finds its own way down, Cullen slides his paws down Adaar’s chest, then crouches to sit on the floor.  The collar sits comfortably around his throat, and he sighs in satisfaction at the heft of it against his collarbone.  He lolls his tongue out of his mouth, cocks his head, still watching, as he looks at Samson, waiting awkwardly next to the door to the balcony.  “Samson,” Adaar says, turning away from Cullen and gesturing Samson forward, “Come with me.”

 

The man that Cullen is cannot help but be cheered by how much better Samson looks.  Though he is still a little sallow, it is mostly from the leeching which Dagna still subjects him to, probably more often than she should.  However, within his dog-mind he feels a slow roil of unexpected jealousy as he watches the two men, standing facing each other in the dim, frosty light of the waning moon.  Nostrils flaring, he growls low when he sees Adaar smile affectionately, almost worriedly at Samson, telling him something in a low tone that Cullen cannot overhear.  And the smile Samson gives Adaar is so relieved that Cullen cannot help but feel guilt temper the sharp dig of his jealousy for a moment.

 

But oh, when Adaar slides the bright leather around Samson’s throat, when the new brass gleams in the moonlight, Cullen is lost.  Before he knows what he’s doing he is up off his haunches, barking and barking, feeling the noise tear his throat, wanting to rush forward and tear the collar off Samson, wanting to hurt, to bite, to leave wounds and subjugate, make him gone.   _Mine!_ his dog mind tells him, _Mine!  My master, no one elses!_

 

Through the open door strides Adaar, mouth set and hands balled into fists.  Cullen takes two steps toward him, still barking, then Adaar yanks him sideways by his collar so abruptly that Cullen chokes.  “Who is master here?” Adaar snarls into Cullen’s face, and his eyes blaze with such ferocity that Cullen quails and is silent.  Still, jealousy coils in his belly like the ashes of an old fire, and he cannot help the growl that leaves his throat as he hears Samson enter the room.  Adaar jerks the collar again and Cullen looks at him and whines.  They remain like that for a dragging minute, eyes locked, Cullen unwilling to back down, Adaar refusing to let go of his collar until he is calm once more.  

 

They might have stayed like that forever, but from behind Adaar comes a rough woof and Cullen looks away, straining at Adaars grip on his collar in order to get a better look at Samson.  Adaar moves aside slightly, and Cullen sees Samson on all fours as he takes a shuffling step toward him.  The step is almost a limp, halting, hesitant, as if Samson is aware of the fact that he is a stranger in strange territory, not confident enough of Adaar yet that he can be assured of his protection.  Cullen’s upper lip rises in a snarl, and as he growls low in his throat, two things happen - Samson stops his approach and ducks his head, as if acknowledging Cullen’s position, and Adaar relinquishes his grip on Cullen’s collar, very slightly.  They stay like that, Cullen glowering at Samson, Adaar with his hand on Cullen’s collar, looking between Samson and Cullen, and Samson with his head bowed.  Finally, Adaar sighs, casts a long, searching look at Cullen, who does not meet his eyes, then lets go of the collar, retreating to stand by the end-post of the bed, wrapping one large arm around it.

 

Cullen scents the air, trying to make up his mind how to proceed.  Quickly, he glances at Adaar, who for all appearances, is leaning casually against the bedpost.  However, Cullen knows the signs by now; the telltale thump of the pulse in his throat, the shift of his weight from hip to hip, the almost imperceptible curl of his lip.  Cullen approaches Samson then, slowly, his paws sinking into the thick pile of the rug.  Samson sinks his head lower, and whines.  Cullen allows himself the smallest smile as he thinks he hears Adaar’s throat work; he continues, closer now, and when he reaches Samson, he scents him.  The top of his head; the backs of his ears, around the line of his jaw.  

 

Samson whines again, shifts slightly and then stills as Cullen continues down the line of his neck, sniffing delicately at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  The bite mark is faded somewhat - only a tiny scab and a bruise remain of their previous encounter.  Cullen crawls along the floor next to Samson, continuing to scent along Samson’s shoulder, down his arm and then up along his ribs.  He notices the bitter, sharp scent of elfroot and the cloying smell of the red lyrium that Samson used to exude is almost gone.  Now he smells of tallow soap and under that… like clay loam soil, like the sea after rain.  And Maker, it is him, _him_ _,_ Lee after all these years, the memory is so powerful as to be overwhelming.  Cullen cannot help it, he nuzzles into Lee’s hip, pushing his forehead against the other man’s skin.  Samson, clearly not expecting it, or expecting much worse, rolls to the side, dropping his hips, tucking his legs up.  Cullen looks at him, surprised, and for a moment they just stare at each other.  Then Samson grins and utters a low, rough bark and squirms against the rug.  Cullen yips happily, bouncing off his front legs slightly, then looks up at Adaar.

 

Adaar only laughs.  His eyes rove over Samson’s prone form, slowly, drinking in the submissive posture, then he looks at Cullen with a smile.  “Seems to know his place, doesn’t he, Pup?” He asks and then looks back at Samson.  In response, Cullen shuffles closer to Samson, laying his front paws across the other man’s stomach, then nuzzling his face into the space between Samson’s ribcage and his stomach.  He feels the coarse hair catch in his stubble, the expanse of smooth skin broken by scars.  He rests his chin in-between his paws and sighs.  Slowly, he rubs his chin across Samson’s belly.  Samson arcs his back, so that his stomach grinds up into Cullen’s face, and Cullen feels Samson’s heartbeat pick up it’s tempo under his paw.  He closes his eyes and turns his head, laying first one cheek, then the other flat against Samson’s stomach, the dull thud of his heartbeat in his ears, under his hands.  Samson whines, arches again and Cullen continues to nuzzle his face against his stomach, knowing that Samson can feel every panting breath leaving his body.  

 

Slowly, he removes his paws and places them on the rug under Samson, then pushes up so that he is sitting once more on his haunches.  Ignoring the throb of his own stiffening cock, he looks up at Adaar, who arches an eyebrow at him and says, “As you will, Pup.”  Cullen woofs softly, tilting his head in thanks, then drops his gaze once more to Samson.  They look at each other, and then Samson begins to turn, to twist as if he will rise.  Quickly, Cullen puts a paw on his hip, growling, and Samson immediately stills.  Cullen barks again, then crawls to Samson’s feet, nuzzling his face inbetween the other man’s raised knees.  Samson whines again, dropping his knees either side of Cullen’s body, and Cullen crawls between them, until his body is directly over Samson.  He stills, looking at Samson for a moment, feeling the weight of Adaar’s eyes upon him.  Then his heart seems to overwhelm everything else, and he rubs his stubbled cheek against Samson’s, lowering his hips as he does.  Samson moans, his breath hot in Cullen’s ear, and Cullen hears Adaar give a small noise of approval.

 

Slowly, Cullen allows his hips to move forward, his cock pinioned between his own body and Samson’s.  The friction, Maker, the strain of the tendons in the juncture of Samson’s thighs that Cullen feels against his hips, the short, panting gasps of breath that leave Samson’s body with every shallow movement of Cullen’s hips against his own.  He growls down at Samson, who whines in return, rolling his head to one side as he does it, mouth open slightly, eyes locked on Cullen’s face.  Cullen nuzzles him under the jaw, softly nips at his earlobe, the brass findings of their collars chiming softly together. Then he pulls his hips back a little from Samson’s body as his tongue traces a line down Samson’s neck, nipping along his collarbone now, and then up again to a line of old scar tissue on the muscle over Samson’s shoulder.  The scar is thick, from a deep wound, and Cullen traces the warped flesh, white in the flushed pink with his tongue.  Samson squirms again, arching his hips up, trying to recapture Cullen’s, trying to recall him to his prior motion.  Cullen cannot help but smile, and instead slides further down, tonguing at Samson’s nipple now, closing his teeth around it roughly until Samson whines again, high pitched and pleading.  Cullen hears Adaar shift position, and then moments later a soft _pflumf_ of cloth hitting the floor.  Moments later there is another, softer again than the first.  Cullen continues alternately licking and biting his way down, down Samson’s body.  Briefly, he licks at Samson’s cock, the entire length of it, and Samson whines and arches his hips up; as he does, Cullen, who has been expecting the gesture, slides his paws underneath Samson’s buttocks and quickly bends his arms at the elbows, holding Samson’s pelvis off the floor.  Silently, he takes first one, then the other of Samson’s balls into his mouth, suckling, releasing each with a faint pop which elicits a gasp and groan from Samson.  Then, inching forward and raising himself slightly, he leans over and takes Samson’s cock into his mouth.

 

Samson groans loudly as Cullen takes him in, as far as he can at this angle.  Using his tongue to press Samson against the roof of his mouth, he sucks in, as hard as he can, and Samson groans again, his fingers twining in Cullen’s hair.  Cullen shakes his head and opens his mouth to growl around Samson’s cock, his teeth exposed around the blood-dark skin.  Immediately, Samson releases his hold in Cullen’s hair, taking a long breath in and clenching his fists in the air before he drops them to his sides again.  Then Cullen feels a huge hand, hot, damp with sweat, on the back of his head and knows it is Adaar.  “Good dogs,” Adaar says, a husky tone to his voice, needy and barely-controlled.  The hand on the nape of his neck presses him gently, firmly down onto Samson, and Cullen opens his mouth wider, trying to accommodate as much of Samson as possible.  His only thought is to please his master.  He knows that Adaar adores the look of his reddened, sweat-streaked face as he chokes and gags around his cock - the same must be true even now, with another man inside him, given the noise that Adaar makes as Cullen pushes back on his hand to try and catch his breath.  

 

Adaar growls low, and asks, “Pup, do you want your tail?”  Cullen, alert to his master’s voice, whines and arches his back, exposing, inviting Adaar, while continuing to move his mouth on Samson.  “Good boy, my good, good pup,” Adaar mutters and then the hand on Cullen’s nape is gone, stroking down his spine.  Samson moans and writhes under him, and Cullen can feel his movements change from desire to necessity, so he takes his time with him, slowing the movements of his mouth, shallowing them until he is only sucking on the head of Samson’s cock.  Samson arches up again, trying desperately to make Cullen resume the deep penetrations, thrusting himself up at Cullen, but all this succeeds in achieving is rubbing his precum against Cullen’s lips.  Cullen grins, hoists himself up on his hands and knees to crawl up Samson’s body again, seeing the deep pink flush of arousal extending down his neck, over his chest.  He moves up still, until they are face to face, then Samson pushes up on his elbows suddenly, whining and licking at Cullen’s mouth as if he wants to taste himself there.  He pushes forward again, forcing Cullen into a sitting position while still straddling his hips, and then tries to bend down far enough to get at Cullen’s cock.  Adaar laughs from behind them, and tells Cullen, “Looks like he wants to return the favour.”  A quick catch of breath, and Adaar instructs him, “Go on then, Pup.  Let him.”

 

Cullen casts a look backwards at Adaar, worried.  He wants the tail, wants the completion of his physical dog-self, but also wants to fill Samson’s mouth with his cock.  He’s not sure how… clenching his jaw, he feels his human-mind begin to assert itself, and the flush of shame must be apparent, because Adaar quickly crouches on the ground next to where Cullen sits astride Samson’s hips.  Maker, he feels so lost, can feel the rising panic, like a drowning man he struggles against it frantically, begrudging the voice inside himself that warns him to pull the collar, tug it down twice, make it all stop.  It mounts and mounts, this feeling, until Adaar wraps long, oily fingers into his collar and tugs gently.  Cullen looks at him, pleadingly, begging silently for Adaar to take control, to figure out the configuration which will get him everything he wants.  “My beautiful puppy,” Adaar says, then turns to smile at Samson, who narrows his eyes and grins reluctantly, almost in spite of himself.  “Lie down, dog,”  Adaar tells him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Samson does.  “Somebody trained you nicely,” Adaar comments and his smile broadens as Samson snorts and averts his eyes.

 

Keeping his hand in Cullen’s collar, Adaar pulls him forward, until his knees are up under Samson’s arms.  Stretching one arm, Adaar snags a throw pillow from the settee, and tells Samson, “Lift your head, dog.”  Samson does so, licking the tip of Cullen’s cock teasingly as he reaches the apex of the lift, watching him with those darkly violet eyes.  Cullen whines, closing his eyes momentarily, savouring the brief contact.  With the pillow now firmly positioning his head at a better angle, Samson continues to look at Cullen, almost leering.  Adaar guides Cullen forward, again onto hands and knees, but this time Samson raises his head and captures Cullens cock between his teeth, biting very, very gently.  And Cullen cannot help it, a low, desperate moan escapes him at the pressure Lee exerts, the warm, damp air he breathes around the exposed, sensitive skin.  Adaar rumbles an appreciative noise deep in his throat, watching as Cullen shifts his hips, Samson opening his mouth wider, allowing Cullen entrance.  After a few moments of just watching them, Cullen, through the fog of his arousal, senses his master moving away, back down his body.  A light touch on his flank reassures him, and he moves again, beginning to thrust in and out of Samson’s mouth.  The wet heat of Samson, and then, oh the feel of Adaar’s hands as he presses down on Cullen’s upper back, forcing him down onto his elbows, Samson’s forehead on his stomach, his hole completely exposed.  Adaar shifts again, positioning himself behind Cullen, and Samson groans around him as the Vashoth grasps his cock, matching the rhythm of Cullen's thrusts with his hand on Samson.  Maker, oh, _oh!_ it is almost too much as Adaar nuzzles Cullen's, oh, Cullen’s ass, warm cheek rough with stubble, faint brush of eyelashes, soft breath, begins… begins to… he begins to probe with expert tongue and oiled finger, widening him, the tight ring of muscle gradually becoming more pliable, accepting.  Samson groans again, the vibrations - Andraste, oh, ohsweet, sweet! Cullen does not even, he can’t, he thinks he says it aloud but is not sure, feels the control that his human mind always desires being gradually replaced by the pure sensory experience of his dog-self.  

 

Everything now becomes less and more at the same time, the blind, blank pressure of the tip of the plug as Adaar finally relinquishes Cullen’s ass from his tongue and fingers.  Cullen pants, open-mouthed as the dog under him lathes a rough tongue over his cock, paws up, kneading at his chest.  Finally, the plug is seated, filling him and the master pulls at his collar, the smell of him, the tight line of unspoken command at his throat, strong hands pulling at his chin, forcing his mouth open; the salt and copper, the taste of him as his master pushes deep, filling, filled, alive and attentive to his master's every desire.  The heat of his hands in Cullen’s fur, the gasp of his voice as he fucks into Cullen, the movements causing his body to rock back and forth bonelessly, which spurs the dog under him to growl and whine.  He does not know how long it goes on for; t i m e   cra a wlls   un t il

the master growls himself and grips Cullen’s collar, pulling out of him roughly then, panting, lifts him under the arms and hauls him off the dog.  Cullen whines, the plug shif

        ting oh glorious aga

    inst the the

place, oh, that _that_ thereOH

and then his master is ordering the other dog to follow, he does, Maker of All, his master carries him over one shoulder, directing the other dog, he can smell him too, Cullen drools at the thought of that beautiful vicious cur, that blunt reddened cock leaking, uh, it’s there, his master has thrown him backwards onto the bed, has him by the collar, pulling him up and thrusting him face forward onto the other dog, he opens his mouth, takes all the other dog in, panting now, desperate.  He feels his master working at the oh!OH! the plug, gently gently pushing and pulling pushing and pulling gently determined as his body gives it up, finally the slack muscles alive to the anticipation of what may replace it.   He feels the pull on his collar as his master tugs him backwards again, off the other dog, who growls, sitting up, looking at the master with defiance, but then the master pushes Cullen forward again, pushing the small of his back forward until he walks on his knees up, over the other dogs hips, straddling him and the master spreads him, the dog is waiting, cock in fist as and more!more! his dog-mind sings and then yes. that sweet heat inside of him, moving within, the slick of sword oil and spit, his own spit within him, and  a aan  d    o o o h h      m a   k   e      r

 

Ti me

    slo ws   a   g a   in.  

 

Cullen can't believe that he could take in so much through his senses at any one time, but the world seems to come alive with them.  Scents, bright and shockingly vivid, seem to almost paint the world around him; Adaar's breath on his neck, cool yellow of the nighttime desert; Samson's sweat, bright blue of the sky reflected in the salt-sea.  He and the other dog move together now, the dark one moving inside the light, rutting and sweating together.  The master watches, smiling slightly, before moving behind Cullen, grey hands arching over pale flesh at hips, and Cullen gasps and whines at the master's touch.   _More_ is the only word he knows, and somehow the master knows it too, stretching him wide, wider than ever before, as the other dog continues the rut, unable to stop for anything now, the dog flinches at the burn and pull, but does not shy away.  There is nothing, nothing else but this, his master and the other dog both now, filling him together, the other dog grunting and flinging his head back, chest and upper arms slicked with sweat, his howl as he comes almost caught behind his arm as he throws it across his mouth and bites himself again and again in his extremity.  The master's cock seems interminable, thrusting up into him, pain and pleasure mingling, he tips forward as a wordless string of moaning noises bursts forth from him, not knowing where his saliva starts and the other dogs sweat begins, bright blue in his nose, he is just dog, just dog as he comes,

          yes he comes it feels like just like home and good and warmth a kind master

          a good dog he comes while the master the other yes the blue and the yellow

          all in his nose he is

          he is

          he knows who he is

 

-|||-

 

Finally, he sleeps.  

 

-|||-

 

When he wakes, the moon has moved backwards across the sky.  He is alone in the bed, but hears Adaar’s voice, low, at ease, not too far away, and so he relaxes.  Samson replies, and Adaar laughs, a gravelly bellow.  Cullen smiles to himself, and then thinks, _Maker, did I sleep the whole day through_?  He rolls over, suddenly worried, thinking of his charges, how his absense will be noted, what will have been said, what will not have been done.  He inhales then blows out the breath, frowning, then flings the blankets back and moving to the edge of the bed.  Clean clothes have been laid out for him, soft leather breeches, cotton undershirt, woolen overshirt.  No armour, no sword belt, no cloak.  He pads to the open balcony door, hears the voices murmuring continue and then stops when he hears his name.

 

“...Len wouldn’t.  Never met a man with such a misplaced hate in him.”  Samson sniffs, and sighs.  “Never hated those who put him in that position to start off with - never bit the hand that fed him.  He never seemed to realise it was the same hand that was holding him down.  Though, I guess…” and here Samson pauses, “he did eventually.  Found you lot, with the help of that Seeker lass.”  He pauses again, and Adaar says, “You love him, don’t you?”

 

The silence stretches, and Adaar begins to say something, but Samson overrides him with a grunt.  Then, after a moment, he says softly, “Don’t know.  Probably.  Sometimes I fuckin’ hate the git, but sometimes… he’s… he can be so fuckin’ noble, and soft, and wise.  He’s a fearsome bastard in a fight, too, one of the best I’ve seen with sword and shield.  No wonder you lot call him the Lion of Skyhold.”  Adaar snorts and chuckles, then tells Samson, “Don’t tell him you know about that one.”  Samson laughs and Cullen can almost see his grin as he tells Adaar, “Yeah, I like my head where it is.  I’m not that stupid.”

 

Quiet again, only the caw! caw! of Leliana’s ravens at a distance.  Cullen takes a deep breath and is about to step through the doorway, when Adaar says, so quietly he almost can’t hear, “Will you… will you look after him?  For me?  Keep him safe?”  He has never heard Adaar like this before, can only imagine the look on his face, and he feels the sting of tears as Samson snorts and tells Adaar, “No.  I won’t keep him safe for you, you big horned idiot.  I’ll keep him safe for himself.  From himself.  Len’s had long enough livin’ for other people.  He needs some time and space just for him.  Anything we want should be secondary.  Got it?”  Adaar is quiet, Cullen can hear him breathing, and then finally, he says, “Yes.” There is a pause, and then he says, “Thank you, Samson.”

 

And the moon moves over the sky, stalking softly like the hunter of time.  Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog howls, and then is joined by another, and another.


End file.
